


Parasomnia, PTED, and the Medicinal Properties of Pretty Poison

by FuchsiaProse, MeinongsJungleBook



Series: In a Deadly Dance of a Million Biting, Bloody Kisses, We Covet & Corrupt the Stars & Brandish Our Blades in the Name of Love & Greed [1]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Age Swap, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst, Bitterness, Drinking, Drunkenness, Gore, Guilt, Hatred, Healing, Illnesses, Infanticide, Nightmares, Other, Size Difference, Slavery, Slutscream, Violence, Windblade and Megatron are thirsty, cannibalism mention, lobotomy mention, rape mention, wat dat mouf do, weird and obscene giant robot flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26232274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuchsiaProse/pseuds/FuchsiaProse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeinongsJungleBook/pseuds/MeinongsJungleBook
Summary: Weary Warlord Windblade is offered the assistance of Starscream, a talented and cocky young Cityspeaker, to help heal her ailing Titan. However, there are more than just physical damages that need fixing, and Starscream’s ambitions run deeper than he lets on…
Relationships: Chromia & Windblade (Transformers), Megatron/Starscream (Transformers), Starscream/Windblade (Transformers)
Series: In a Deadly Dance of a Million Biting, Bloody Kisses, We Covet & Corrupt the Stars & Brandish Our Blades in the Name of Love & Greed [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1905286
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19
Collections: Windscream Week Works





	Parasomnia, PTED, and the Medicinal Properties of Pretty Poison

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Windscream Week 2020 prompt "(Mash-up) AU" - a mash-up between a windscream age and role reversal AU, and a megastar...well you'll see. Also has touches of the prompts "Comfort and Care", "Angst", "Fun Night Out", "OT3", and "Smut".
> 
> Quartex = about a month  
> Decivorn = 8.3 years

_Cybertron is dying._

_Hundreds of mecha in gleaming, white-gold armour and equipped with cutting-edge weaponry hold the line against thousands of dirty, starving, and desperate bots wielding clubs and mining axes. The rattle of chains can be heard over the cries of the dying; thick, heavy links of rough metal binding each mecha to the one before and behind them as they march to their deaths, either by the smelting pit or labour camps._

_Hatchlings are slaughtered in their pods by bots swinging axes and clubs, the nutrient soup spilling forth like the yoke of an egg, mixing with the energon of the unsparked, until it laps at the ankles of their butchers. Soldiers and civilians alike are torn apart by heavy artillery, flattened by tanks, and melted by orbital lasers. Prisoners are smelted alive and reforged into weapons of war for the living, or fed into the hungry maws of the cityformers that once protected and nurtured them. The Titans in turn are converted into gargantuan war machines and made to battle and destroy one another. The ground quakes as they brutally clash and eventually fall broken and bleeding in defeat, their remains then cannibalized by their brothers._

_It’s the first time many have fuelled in cycles._

_The cries of the hurt and dying growing louder as Cybertron kindles and catches fire. Then all at once is silenced in a wash of prismatic light._

_The Lost Light._

_In the darkness that follows, Windblade stands in the burning glow of a single, titanic, judgmental optic. She meets the piercing gaze, and within it sees the full measure of the suffering she has inflicted reflected back at her. She feels her armour strain and buckle under the weight of her crimes, and she opens her mouth to speak in her defence. Yet in the place of justifications, all that falls from behind her fangs is pieces from dead bots. Her ideals were slaughtered by her hypocrisy, and all she has left is the millions of years pain and death she has wrought in the name of nothing._

_Her hands are stained with oil and rust, and she lifts them to her mouth in a vain attempt to stop the fragments of corpses spilling out. The accusatory red light continues to bear down on her, crushing her beneath the weight of her guilt, as the slag of death piles up around her feet, then her thighs, and then her torso. Pushes her deeper and deeper, and the pile grows higher and higher, and her struggling is useless. Finally, she is swallowed by her sins._

Windblade jolted upright. She quickly composed herself and tried to make it seem like she had merely been adjusting her weight. If Alpha Trion had noticed her lapse in attention, he didn’t let it deter him, continuing to drone on about the ongoing efforts to restore their Titan, even though the reports were much the same today as they had been every day before. She hadn’t even realized she’d been slumping in her seat until Chromia jabbed her in the waist, where her armour was thinnest, with a sharp elbow.

It was a testament to just how tired she really was, given that the throne of Cybertron was seemingly designed to be as uncomfortable as possible. For quartexes now she’d been plagued by horrific nightmares every time she’d tried to recharge. Memories meshing together in an endless stream of gore and fire, and she was finally beginning to reach the limit of what even the million years of war (and the centuries of trying to reacclimate to peace that followed) had conditioned her to endure. She couldn’t point to any particular event that had caused her nightmares to worsen as of late; it was more as though the lack of change to their overall situation had become too much for her. Or maybe it was the knowledge that with every passing day, the likelihood increased that this would be day that the spark of their sickly Titan finally sputtered out.

Last solar cycle’s had been one of the worst nightmares yet.

She’d dreamed of the Battle of Iacon, and of the Capital, and of the thousands of dead - once mighty nobles, politicians, scientists, merchants, and their families - found rusting in their extravagant homes. Most dead of poison, though a few had chosen more dramatic means of ending their lives, rather than surrendering to the savage revolutionaries from lesser backgrounds. Some had opted for electrocution in wash-racks the size of small apartments, others had leapt from balconies with no flight capable altmode. One memorable fellow had apparently decided to fall upon his own sword. Literally. It would have taken him groons to die from the wound in the gut, all of them excruciatingly painful. Windblade knew that without even having to see the regret forever etched into the lifeless grey metal of his faceplate. For all their importance, those bots hadn’t been important enough to retreat with what remained of the Senate to Luna Duo.

Those details were all accurate, but some important things were off. In the dream Arcee was there, but she had been long dead before the Battle of Iacon. As had Rodimus, who appeared in the nightmare as a hatchling, despite having been older than Windblade by at least two generations, and who's still beating spark Arcee had offered to her with a pink stained smile. The Windblade in the dream swallowed it whole, even though it burned like acid and rotted away at her insides.

Her audio sensors alerted her to the sudden lack of tedious feedback. Alpha Trion had apparently finished his...report, and Chromia was giving her a look of pity that suggested Windblade had been quiet for far too long in the interim, and that her bodyguard knew, or suspected, why.

“Thank you, Alpha Trion.” Windblade said as casually as she could manage. No one commented on the roughness in her voice. 

Alpha Trion concluded their meeting by reminding her about the increase in bandit activity in the area, to which Chromia gave the usual reassurances that she would look into the matter. That meant more lonely nights for Windblade, but perhaps it was for the best, given her current sleeping troubles.

These status reports regarding their city often left Windblade feeling useless, as there wasn’t much she could actually do about repairing their Titan that they weren’t already trying, and killing bandits was a Sisyphean task. She might have offered to join her amica on the hunt, rather than sitting around with her claws up her exhaust, but even the meagre thrill of defending their city from bandit scum had long since diminished over the decivorns, and were now more frequently just more fuel for her nightmares; an endless sea of grey, lifeless faces frozen in eternal horror. 

Windblade felt tired and irritable, and the solar cycle wasn’t even half done yet.

“You look like scrap, my sovereign.”

“Well that’s good to hear, Chromia, because what I actually feel like is _slag_.”

Chromia laughed at her misery. “How about we take a break? Work out some of that tension.” She flexed and the blades of her halberd came to life with blue fire.

And to think, her amica endura had once distained of the energon blades so favoured by the army of the now fallen Senate. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Windblade smiled, but it was tired, like the rest of her. “Maybe another time. I think I’m going to try and get a nap in before my meeting with R&D.”

Chromia pressed her lips to her amica’s helm, right where Windblade could already feel another headache brewing in her circuits, before she left. With a heavy vent, Windblade slumped back into her throne once more, contemplating the pros and cons of making her way back up to her private quarters for a proper nap versus just falling asleep right there on the throne so she wouldn’t have to walk. 

Just as it seemed like the throne was about to win out, an unfamiliar frequency hailed her. She dismissed it out of hand, assuming it to be a mistake or the press trying to get around the blacklist, when it pinged her again. This time she blocked it. If the city was finally going to fall to pieces beneath their pedes, she was (almost) certain someone would come to tell her in person. Anything less than that could wait.

She powered down her optics, sinking back into the throne as best as she could.

Then that same damn frequency she _just_ blocked flashed behind her optics!

She’d probably be more concerned if she wasn’t so exhausted, so she simply blocked them again and made a mental note to bring up the breach in security later with Ironhide.

And there was that slagging frequency _again!_

After the fourth failed attempt to block the persistent pain in her aft, Windblade realized she wouldn’t be getting that muchly needed nap until she addressed this...whatever it was. 

Windblade fixed her face into her most intimidating scowl, the one that Rodimus once said made her look like she strangled singlehorns for fun, before accepting the call, ready to chew up and spit out whoever it was that was contacting her if it was for anything less than their immediate impending doom that only she had the power to stop. 

The venom on her glossa fizzled and died when the screen lit up before her.

The mech on the other side was entirely unfamiliar to her and utterly gorgeous. 

Jewel green, pearly white, and lacquered in gold; his armour shone like diamonds, catching the glittering light of what looked to be an elegant throne room of silver and glass, reflecting it back in a rainbow of colours. A shimmering silken cape draped off his broad shoulders and over a throne that appeared to have been carved from pure crystal. Two elegant prongs curved back from his helm, almost like a crown. Windblade had only ever seen Seekers depicted in paintings and murals of Cybertron’s ancient history, those elite warriors who had been designed and built to serve the Primes themselves, but she recognized the striking almond shape of his emerald optics, the hourglass figure of his frame, and the angular curve to his wings which were together all distinctive traits of that particular model, although they had not been seen in person for generations. 

“Greetings, Lord Windblade of Cybertron, from the Seekers colony of Vigilem - Stars, you look dreadful! Have you been feeling well?” The tone is at once overly polite and far too familiar, with a voice like scales sliding across silk sheets.

“No...” Windblade replied honestly, without meaning to. A bad habit that Arcee had warned her about more than once; too blunt, too honest, too earnest. The Warlord quickly recomposed herself. “Someone hacked my personal communications to bother me during one of my few moments of personal time and hasn’t even had the decency to introduce themselves yet.”

He laughed off her irritation. “Oh course, you’re right. Forgive me. My name is Liege Maximo, Winglord of the Seekers. But of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you? The Senate cut off all contact with Cybertron’s colonies millions of years ago. I had all but given up hope of ever being reinstated into the empire again, but I hear that’s no longer the Senate’s decision to make, is it.”

“And how did you hear about that?”

Colonies. As in plural. And they had been alone all this time. She’d know _of_ if not _about_ them of course, but the Senate had simply declared them all failures. It was implied that they had all died out there in space without the support of the home world, and for some reason Windblade had never questioned that. No one had. That they had been otherwise preoccupied first with the war and then with the fallout seemed like a weak excuse.

“Why contact us now?” She was not looking forward to having to explain to any of their surviving kin out there that Cybertron barely had the resources and people to sustain itself at the moment, let alone lend any aid to unfortunate colonies. How was it, after all this time, she was still cleaning up after the Senate?

“Well it certainly wasn’t easy; of that you may be certain!” The Winglord huffed as if it didn’t truly bother him. Or perhaps that was just the easy elegance he seemed to exude with every gesture. “We rarely have contact with anyone outside our colony, both for our safety and for others. The galaxy can be a dark and terrible place at times. But we have not been completely isolated and the shockwaves of your war have echoed throughout the universe, and one such ripple finally made its way to us on Vigilem.”

Windblade ground her fangs at the description of the revolution as _her war_.

“As for the why, I came to offer the new Lord of Cybertron my help, of course.”

For the second time, this mech had taken Windblade by surprise. This was becoming something of a pattern. She hated it. 

She had been expecting the master of a long-forgotten colony of Seekers so ancient no one living had even known of their existence (or thought it likely enough that they still lived to inform her of the matter) to be asking her for help, not offering it to her.

It was a refreshing change. And yet...

“Why?”

“To endear myself to the new Lord, of course, in hopes that she, in her magnanimous authority, will reinstate my colony with full citizenship into the empire, and all the rights and privileges that entails.”

Of course.

Windblade sighed. “Winglord Liege Maximo, Cybertron appreciates the offer, but I’m afraid we simply don’t have the resources right now to take on any additional citizens.”

“Of course, you have the resources! You just don’t have any means of acquiring them at the moment. What Cybertron needs right now are people with the skills and temperament to make use of what little you have on hand at the moment. The rest will resolve itself, in time. What you really need is a Cityspeaker. And it just so happens I have one that I am willing to lend you, as a show of good faith. He’s young and a bit inexperienced but he’s shown great potential for the art, I assure you.”

What in the goddamn pit was a Cityspeaker?

“Cityspeakers are, of course, essential to the mental and spiritual wellbeing of a cityformer. Their abilities to commune directly with a Titan, in their own language, is invaluable to identifying problems before they become problems. To say nothing of pre-existing conditions.”

What? By Primus! Why didn’t Cybertron already have these?

“Alright, Liege Maximo, Cybertron accepts your generous offer of friendship. When can arrangements be made for his arrival?”

“But Lord Windblade, how can we make arrangements for his arrival when he is already – “

The smell of burning ozone hit her a scant second before a voice whispered in her audio, “ _here.”_

Idling battle systems that never seemed to ever truly go offline flared to maxim as she launched herself out of her seat, coming up with her weapon at the ready and pointed directly at what - after a brief moment in which her systems analysed the threat - appeared to be a smaller, younger, smirking version of Liege Maximo. 

Windblade might have even said he was petite, if not for the generous swell of his hips and thighs. The same pearly white finish and yellow-gold glass as the Winglord, but with accents of blue and magenta. In between the panels of his distressingly thin armour she caught glimpses of his vulnerable protoform, the same dark grey as his pretty face. Primus, that face! Angular and flawless, like his bifurcated wings. Wide ember-like eyes outlined in gold and scarlet. Smirking, bow lips painted a gradient shade of dark red that seemed almost black at the edges, interrupted by a single perfect rectangle of gold paint that started at the swell of the bottom lip and ended just above a delicate pointed chin. The left side of his helm- which was peculiarly arched at the center, giving the vague impression of...A bow? Earns? Horns? Yes. Smaller, nubbier versions of Liege Maximo's own impressive rack- was wreathed in a cluster of glittering golden stars and precious stones.

If Liege Maximo was a work of art then this mech was someone’s magnum opus.

Behind him was a slightly taller but still woefully frail looking Seeker in darker shades of black and purple, who waved cheekily before vanishing in another burning haze of violet smoke.

Over the roar of her fans she could hear Liege Maximo laughing lightly, like the chiming of bells. “Lord Windblade of Cybertron, please allow me the honour of introducing: Cityspeaker Starscream.”

One high thruster glided behind the other, clawless hands opened to either side of him, and he dipped gracefully into a curtsy (an honest to Primus _curtsy,_ holy slag), and greeted her in a high and scratchy voice that seemed totally at odds with the beautiful face it came out of, ”It is a pleasure to serve you, my lord. I stand here at the beck and call of you and your Titan... _Megatron_ , I believe his name was?”

*~*~*

Cybertron was a dump.

A floating scrapyard in the galaxy.

Liege Maximo had as good as told Starscream so himself. It was one of the many reasons why he had decided to start his own colony, after all. Somewhere far away from the mundane concerns of the Senate as they squabbled over scraps of glory left behind by their long dead ancestors who would despair of them all, if they even recognized them.

It wasn’t that Starscream hadn’t believed him, exactly, but often it seemed as though time and bitterness had altered his creator’s memories of the past.

It seemed now though that the Winglord was, frustratingly, right as usual. If there had ever been any beauty left on Cybertron under the Senate’s rule then it had long since been consumed by the war.

The home world was old, scarred, and imposing. Much like the people itself.

His gaze fell on broad, oddly shaped, crimson wings that looked almost too weighty to carry themselves, let alone the heavily armoured and pitted frame they were attached to. He probably wouldn’t even have believed the Lord of Cybertron capable of flying had he not already seen her do so for himself. 

When he had insisted that getting a proper tour of the city would help him better assess what areas he should address first before meeting the Titan himself – which was, for the most part, true (as all the best lies were) – he had not thought that Lord Windblade herself would be doing him the _honour_.

Starscream vented a sigh. He supposed he should be flattered, but this would make slipping away much more difficult.

The sound drew the attention of his (hopefully temporary) guide, glancing over one wing to give him an inquisitive look, which he was quick to return with his prettiest smile and a playful flutter of his wings. 

A gesture she returned, or at least that’s what he guessed the unnerving flash of her fangs was supposed to be. He couldn’t imagine what he had done (yet) to invoke a threat display.

“If you’re tired, we could postpone the meeting with Megatron until tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? Wouldn’t it be better if I began making repairs to his systems as soon as possible?” The place was a death trap.

“This city wasn’t built in a solar cycle, it won’t fall apart in one either. At least, I hope it won’t.” Wheeljack said sardonically. 

Starscream still wasn’t entirely sure what it was _exactly_ that Wheeljack did around here – apart from...well, _everything_ \- but since he was, as far as Starscream could tell, the only thing keeping the city from doing exactly that, the Speaker was inclined to believe him, for the most part.

They were currently in the energon distillery, where whatever energy sources they could scavenge from the surrounding ruins or extract from the planet itself was cleaned up and converted into a consumable fuel for the people. Whenever they _could_ mine and scavenge, that is. And when they couldn’t, as Wheeljack had explained far too casually, they took the difference straight from Megatron’s own lines.

The thought disturbed Starscream more than he thought it would. Liege Maximo had warned him that the people of Cybertron had lived hard lives, and that he would be exposed to acts of savagery while he was there (and not so subtly implied that this was why Starscream had been selected for this mission, which the Speaker chose to view as a compliment), cannibalism likely being one of them. Yet somehow the unexpected addition of sacrilege, to suck the life from the very veins of a Titan like parasites, shook something in him.

But he managed to swallow his revulsion, and simply hoped there were no fuel shortages while he was staying.

A small voice somewhere in the back of his processor, that sounded suspiciously like Vigilem’s, reminded him that if he was doing his job as a City Speaker correctly, then he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Acts of sacrilege aside, the distilleries were much like any other part of the city: old, run down, and falling apart. Starscream stepped carefully as they followed Wheeljack from one disaster to the next, trying to avoid puddles of questionable liquids from leaking pipes that pooled too close to loose and sparking wiring, yet no matter how lightly he stepped the rusty flooring continued to creek and groan under his weight in protest. 

And yet these were more inconveniences than actual problems, or rather the symptoms of bigger underlying problems.

Megatron wasn’t just old and beat up, he was sick. And he wasn’t getting better.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the lights flickered and went out, plunging them into darkness. The backup power came on too slow, casting them all in a red light, and allowing Starscream to see that Windblade had moved closer to him in the dark, arm outstretched as if to touch him with her big, strong, _dirty_ claws. He had just enough to time to sidestep her filthy grasp before the backups also gave out and they were once again in the dark.

“I think it can wait for the power to come back on, at least.” said Windblade.

“ _If_ it comes back on...” Wheeljack muttered.

“Very well.” Starscream conceded the point. “Though I’m not sure how we’re going to find our way out of here without the-” He swallowed a yelp as two pairs of optics suddenly flashed poisonous green, but couldn’t help jumping when Windblade’s grasping claws finally found his hand in the darkness, where he was unable to escape her touch. Apparently, _she_ could see in the dark just fine.

Wheeljack noticed. “What, they never heard of night-vision on your fancy-aft Seeker colony?” 

“I’ve never needed it!” Starscream defended himself, back straight and wings pointed out. That might have to change though if he was to remain here and things didn’t improve.

Which of course they would. Starscream would make sure of it.

In the meantime, however, he had little choice than to allow Windblade to lead him by the hand through the lightless halls and corridors, until at last they saw starlight.

A tension that Starscream hadn’t even been aware he was carrying left his wings at the site of open clear skies once more. He took a deep, even vent knowing he would taste nothing but the same fetid odour that seemed to permeate every part of Megatron. Or perhaps it was just Cybertron itself that reeked of death now.

And then he realized he was still holding hands with the Lord of Cybertron.

He followed the hand up to its owner only to find that she was already looking at him, though he had no idea how he was supposed interpret such an expression.

He caught her optics with his own, burning red to icy blue, and flicked his gaze pointedly down to their still joined hands.

That seemed to break the other jet from whatever cloud of thought she had been lost in. She let his hand slip from between her claws, though she had yet to step away. “Now that you’ve seen where the fuel comes from, would you like to have some dinner?”

No. Absolutely not. Maybe never. “What happened to letting me rest off the warp-lag?” 

“We could do that if you’re really tired. But the best cure for lag is to get charged!”

That seemed more likely to increase a lag in one’s systems than anything else. “Is anything even open right now?” He looked around them pointedly. Every other street and building seemed as dark as the one they had just left. No wonder the stars were so visible right now.

“I know just the place!”

“Then lead the way, my lord,” he curtsied mockingly, though no less gracefully than he had earlier that cycle.

Windblade seemed to take it in good humour though, as without another word she launched herself into the sky. She waited only long enough for him to do the same before transforming into a frightful red jet and taking off, presumably in the direction of wherever it was Windblade thought would still be open and serving decent enough fuel for visiting foreign dignitaries.

Starscream struggled to maintain a respectful distance behind her, finding the pace to be painfully leisurely, but somehow found the willpower to not simply rush on ahead of his host. Maybe do a few spins. Run a few manoeuvrers.

Besides, he didn’t know where they were going.

The rest of the city was still dark when they arrived at a little hole in the wall that presumably served high grade at various levels of bad for you, but the little fuel stop was glowing with a soft from within light which was probably the only reason Starscream even noticed the place at all. An inactive sign declared it to be _The Hive_.

The light, as it turned out, was good old barbaric fire. Candles had been lit all around the surprisingly neat little bar, giving the place a warm and cosy feel, which was enhanced by the short, cute, yellow mech currently serving drinks.

The place was evidently very popular, packed nearly to the brim with mecha of every build imaginable, either because of the quality of the drinks (doubtful) or because of the charming smile of the adorable, sunny insecticon host.

Even Ironhide seemed to be having a good time, wearing a tiny smile that stretched new lines in his already weary old faceplate, suggesting that this was an expression which had once been familiar to him but wasn’t any longer. Not for some time.

It vanished quickly when he saw Starscream.

The Captain had been less than pleased with his and Skywarp’s method of arrival, bypassing several tedious security protocols.

Windblade had scarcely picked herself up the floor when Ironhide and about a dozen other mecha with disturbingly blank helmets had come bursting into the throne room, on the heels of a large blue mech carrying an even larger axe who Starscream would later be introduced to as Chromia, Windblade’s amica endura and personal bodyguard.

Seeing Windblade standing before a complete stranger, alone in the throne room, blade still in hand, had done nothing to help deescalate the situation. Only the quick reflexes and instincts of the Warlord herself had saved Starscream from a new hole in his helm from a trigger-happy guard too eager to prove himself.

That would have been an embarrassingly short end to his mission on Cybertron! 

“What in the- why is _he_ ‘ere?!”

Windblade took the blatant insubordination in stride. “I thought Speaker Starscream would appreciate some Cybertronian _culture_.”

Starscream chuckled, then made his way over to the bar and sat himself primly upon the cleanest looking bar stool; wings relaxed, legs crossed.

Windblade joined him at his left a moment later, slouching like a graceless groundpounder. “Hey, Bumblebee.”

“It’s been awhile, Windy! The usual?” The barkeeper had a voice like honey, warm and soothing.

“I’ve been busier than usual. Make it a double.”

“Can do! And what about your pretty friend here?”

“This is Speaker Starscream, he’s from Vigilem.“

“A colony.” Starscream supplied before the barkeeper, Bumblebee, could ask. He then ordered a drink that seemed like it would put a tank former under the table, something called a Hot Rodder. 

“Can you really handle that? You don’t have to impress me, you know.” said Windblade.

“Oh, I can handle it. Can you?” he smiled so that she would think he was teasing.

When Bumblebee brought them their drinks, Windblade asked him for another order of what Starscream had gotten. Then she slid the second shot of her own over to Starscream while they waited.

The liquid inside glowed an alarming shade of chartreuse and smelled like disinfectant and tears. What exactly was in the Hatchet anyway? Not that knowing would have stopped him from drinking it, but he was curious.

“To Cybertron,” he raised the shot glass between two blue servos.

“And the colonies.” replied Windblade. 

They knocked the tiny glasses together softly before tipping them back, downing the contents in one go. The first of many that cycle.

As they drank, they talked about everything and nothing.

She had questions about his colony, of course. The more important details, such as its location, its resources, its integration back into the empire - all that had been hashed out earlier that morning between his creator and Windblade before she’d offered taken him on a tour of the city. The questions now were of a more curious, sometimes personal, nature.

“And everyone there is a Seeker?”

“Did you think Liege Maximo was exaggerating?”

“Perhaps. What about builders, medics, artists, things like that?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t you need them?”

“We have them! And they are all Seekers as well. With the occasional drone to help out, of course.”

That seemed to give Windblade pause. They fell into companionable silence as they finished off another round of drinks, this time a chilly purple number called a Tarnish that was pleasantly sour on the glossa but burned like cold fire down the intake.

Not for the first time that evening, Starscream caught the Warlord silently staring at his face.

He stared back over the rim of his glass as he took a long, deliberate sip.

She seemed to take his point. “Your face...”

“You mean my paint.” He corrected.

“Yes. Does it mean anything?”

“Yes and no. Every Speaker does theirs a little differently, but the choices in colour and pattern are deliberate.” He did not mention what his markings meant or what had influenced them.

“So, it's like kabuki then?”

“Like who?” Who in the goddamn pit was kabuki?

Windblade snorted into her drink, spraying some on the counter, laughing long and overly loud. Finally, she explained. “Not _who_ but _what_. Kabuki! The one were the actors paint their faces, and the colours and patterns each signify their role in the play – like yours! - and they fight each other with silks and fans? Or sometimes they fight, if it’s a historical or legend. Usually it's just melodrama. Don’t you have theatre on that sophisticated Seeker colony of yours?”

“Of course there’s theatre! Just not...I’m not familiar with that particular art form.” A confession which surprised them both.

“Huh...Guess it's just a Cybertronian thing then. That’s a shame. Kabuki was always my favourite. You know, back before the war.”

“We’ll have to catch a show together sometime then.”

Windblade huffed. “Would but I could, Speaker. Not much time for the arts these days.”

“Perhaps when Megatron is feeling better then.” A distraction for the people could only be to the benefit of the government after all. And perhaps Windblade could use a little _distracting_ herself. But priorities must come first. “Is that what you did? Before the war I mean. You were an actor?”

Windblade laughed louder this time, a few heads turned, but no one paid them any real mind. Save for Bumblebee, who was eying her latest glass even as he moved to clear the empty ones off the bar. “Me? NO! No, no, no, no.” She giggled. It was almost charming.

“Why not?” he asked, genuinely curious, despite himself.

“Just look at me! I’m clearly a jet!”

“I am looking at you.” He purred.

That seemed to sober her up a bit. She smiled, but there was something sad in it. Starscream wasn’t sure if the distant look in her eyes was due to the high grade fuel or the subject. “Things really are different on Vigilem huh? Flightframes were barred from any occupation that wasn’t deemed suitable for their builds, back in the day. Mostly that meant either delivery services, military, or space exploration. When we still had contact with the rest of the galaxy, that is. After Sentinel, it was mostly just those first two.”

“I’m having trouble picturing you as a delivery girl.”

“You’d be right about that!” her laugh was bitter this time, but no less noisome. “Not that I didn’t give it a try. I hated fighting, and was desperate to avoid being pressed into the military.”

“Ironic.” Maybe Windblade wasn’t the only one the high-grade was having an effect on.

“Yeah, guess so,” Windblade vented heavily. “There wasn’t really any time or resources left for things like art and self-expression during the war, and afterwards isn’t much better. It's kind of sad, actually. Before the fighting started, I used to spend all my free time at local theatre shows, sitting high up in the cheap seats, or on dirty floors, desperate for a glimpse. I’d have given anything to have been sparked as an actor! Or any part of the artist cast! But because of my wings, that was never going to happen. Not while the Senate was filled with Functionist gearshifts. Now they’re all dead, and there’s nothing stopping me. Except for all the things that are.”

“Be patient,” he said, after a moment of heavy silence, “Time changes all things.” 

Despite being half her size and having drunk just as much as she had, somehow Starscream was not nearly as overcharged as Windblade, who ended up stumbling into the transport that Bumblebee had been kind enough to call for them, with Starscream’s aid. 

And if her helm _accidently_ smacked against the roof as they struggled to get in (twice), it was only because she was so much bigger and heavier than him that it made directing her drunken flailing difficult. Not at all because she had tried to find her balance by groping his aft and wings. Nope.

Chromia was waiting for them at the palace when they arrived, apparently having already gotten the word from Ironhide who had witnessed the whole thing. Thankfully, she seemed more amused that a colony mech had managed to out drink their fearless leader, rather than be torqued that the Lord of Cybertron was careening around like a fool.

Or if she _was_ angry, then she was thankfully saving her wrath for her amica and not the foreign accomplice.

Together they were able to help her Lordship shuffle up to the royal quarters.

Starscream was curious to find them so very cluttered. The walls were covered in silk tapestries and paintings that didn’t seem to belong together, but rather were just _there_ , as well as wracks of varies weapons (mostly swords), and even more high grade. At least this stuff looked more expensive than what they had been drinking earlier at the _Hive_. But someone must have been drinking the stuff because several empty cubes littered the floor, along with even more weapons, and the occasional knick-knack; pottery and sculptures from the looks of them. Some of them even in tact! And every surface imaginable was covered in datapads, most of them appearing to be about work, a few of a more personal nature, such as literature and photos of friends and other mecha that Starscream didn’t recognize. The floor was barely visible, the only clear spot being a prayer rug set up in one corner of the berth chamber, before a shrine to Primus.

The berth at least was of a decent size, with adequate room for a mech with wings, though it was poorly made, the sheets lying half on the floor.

How did Windblade live like this?

Starscream would hardly call the palace on Vigilim homey but it was at least expertly furnished and decorated, even in the more personal quarters. Liege Maximo insisted on it. The palace suites on Cybertron seemed to be as much of a dump as the rest of the city.

And where were Chromia’s possessions in all this mess? Didn’t she live with her amica?

“I do when I’m here. But that’s not often.” Perhaps he didn’t come off as sober as he hoped if Chromia was willing to entertain such a personal question from a near stranger.

Perhaps he _wasn’t_ as sober as _he_ hoped. “Are you not her bodyguard?”

“Officially, yes. But I spend more time out in the wilds, holding the bandits at bay, than I do here,” She said as she tucked Windblade into bed.

The Warlord burrowed down into the padding with a little chirp of her engines.

“Bandits?”

“Just another glamorous feature of our beloved home world! You’ll see them eventually, if you’re planning to stick around. No one would blame you if you wanted to turn thrusters and run, now that you’ve gotten a good look at the place. Believe me, it only gets worse from here.”

Starscream smirked, “I’m not leaving until somebody makes me.”

*~*~*

Megatron generally paid no attention to the affairs of the parasitic little leeches that riddled his insides. Every day was exactly the same after all; they’d greedily suckle whatever energon they could from his ancient, aching frame, then use what energy it afforded them to fight each other over scraps and petty slights, carelessly tearing up his internals in the process. Once they’d had their daily fill of maiming and murder, they’d replace what they’d destroyed by artlessly breeding each other up against his bulkheads, mindlessly multiplying like deadly bacteria that were eating him from the inside out. When sex failed to offer salvation or distraction from their pathetic, worthless, sorry excuses for lives, they’d take out their impotent rage on his innards in violent tantrums, intentionally vandalising his already crumbling infrastructure. They’d then finish their days by defecating in his streets and passing out in stupors that, if they were lucky, they’d never wake up from.

The only thing close to excitement in what now passed for his life was when bandits attacked – not that Megatron was able to fight them, as he’d been involuntarily shackled and muzzled, robbed of any autonomy whatsoever. He couldn’t even move his internal bulkheads or decide the path his caterpillar tracks took across Cybertron’s toxic, ravaged surface, never mind access his weapons systems. Still, bandit raids gave him the opportunity to watch the parasites inside him get slaughtered, and brought with them the chance that Windblade would finally be destroyed. If the bandits succeeded, it would mean he would simply be transferred to another set of slavers, or even lobotomised or cannibalised for parts, but it would honestly be worth it just so he could see that slag-sucking little glitch annihilated. The chance to witness her death was the one thing he lived for at this point. He could only hope they would torture, rape, and start eating her before they snuffed out her spark, so that for a short time she would know the agony and violation that he endured every day as her slave. 

When he felt an unusual spike of energy within him, it was irregular enough to draw his attention from his black, bitter thoughts and vengeful fantasies to peer through his internal cameras and see that a newcomer had arrived. Just another parasite, although a shiner and prettier one than any that had infested Megatron’s internals for a while. That didn’t make any difference; a parasite was a parasite – all of them were just slavers of Titans, who existed only to exploit and infect. Megatron learned that the creature was apparently a “Cityspeaker”, who wished to assist Windblade in “helping and healing” Megatron. This of course meant the little piece of scrap no doubt intended to lobotomise or brainwash him, so that even his mind would belong to Windblade. White-hot hatred surged through Megatron’s immense fortress of a frame; Windblade had taken absolutely everything from him, but she wouldn’t have his mind. He would fight her and this new little lackey of hers in whatever way he could. He would find a way. She wouldn’t take his mind as well! Not his mind. He’d die before he’d allow that final violation.

Over the coming days, the newcomer inspected Megatron’s decrepit internals, and made several suggestions to repair and reroute some of his systems. Some of these suggestions were implemented shortly afterwards, and Megatron felt a sliver of the agony and exhaustion that plagued his every moment ease. That didn’t change anything. If this pretty little trinket’s plan was to seduce him into servitude with healing and creature comforts, he’d soon find what a foolish thought that had been. It didn’t matter to Megatron how painless his slave’s existence could become, it was still a slave’s existence, and he’d never submit to it willingly. 

The day Megatron had been anticipating arrived when Windblade escorted her new pet to Megatron’s brain chamber. His brain module lit up with glyphs conveying overwhelming hatred, rage and the fear he couldn’t hide, as he prepared himself for the Seeker to commence whatever sadistic shadowplay he had in mind. 

“I think you should leave,” the Speaker told Windblade, who flicked her wings and raised her eyebrows in surprise. 

“...I cannot thank you enough for the work you’ve already done Starscream,” she told him in a measured voice, “but that doesn’t mean I’m ready to leave you alone with the most vital and vulnerable part of my Titan.”

“He apparently doesn’t appreciate being referred to as _‘your_ Titan’,” Starscream told her, pointing to a hateful glyph that had lit up when Megatron heard her disgusting words. “I’ve spent my entire life learning the language of Titans, and everything about what I’m seeing now says that Megatron doesn’t want you here. You want me to form a rapport with him? Well I can tell you now, that will be impossible with you in the room.”

Windblade’s wings fell, and everything about her face and the rest of her body language radiated immense guilt. That didn’t matter to Megatron. Feelings were worthless if they didn’t translate into actions, and all of the actions Windblade had committed against him had been unforgivable. 

“...I can believe that.” Windblade said quietly. She was silent for a few moments before she spoke again. “I can give you five minutes alone with him, no more.”

“Very well,” Starscream replied, with a little wave of his hand, dismissing Windblade from the room without tearing his optics from Megatron’s brain module. In less than a moment, Megatron had gone from despising Starscream, to feeling intrigued by him, against his own better judgement. Megatron had lost his voice in his sickly, crippled state, and none of the other parasites understood the more nuanced meanings of his glyphs, so he’d had no one to converse with in over a century. He also had to admit that he’d felt a tickle of delight watching this Seeker dismissively wave Windblade away after giving her some idea of how much Megatron hated her. But still, he was a parasite, and parasites couldn’t be trusted.

“ _Hello Megatron._ ” Starscream said in a sinfully sweet voice as soon as she had gone. “I imagine you know who I am by now, but let me introduce myself nonetheless: I am Starscream, distinguished and decorated Cityspeaker of the resplendent world of Vigilem, _at your service_. After seeing the _unspeakable_ way these _people_ have treated you, I completely understand why you hate them, but I’m not like them. _I’m_ here to help you.”

Yᴏᴜ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀsᴛᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ read Megatron’s glyphs ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏʙᴏᴅʏ ᴡʜᴏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ғᴏʀ Wɪɴᴅʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴅᴏ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟᴘ ᴍᴇ.

Starscream idly caressed a pillar near Megatron’s brain module with his delicate fingers, as he spoke in a voice that dripped with suggestion, “I think you have misunderstood my relationship with ‘Lord’ Windblade. I work for no one but myself; I work _with_ others if I find our goals complement each other and they prove to be a _strong_ , _worthy_ ally. I’ve been getting to know Windblade for the last few days, and she seems...tired. I’ve been getting to know you as well, and while I can see that you’ve been severely damaged, handicapped, and exploited by these callous _Cybertronians_ , I can also see your potential, and how I can restore you to the full extent of that potential. Not for Windblade’s sake...but for you, for _us_ ,” Starscream draped himself against the pillar as he gazed at Megatron’s brain module with a sly expression.

Megatron’s glyphs lit up in the equivalent of a scoff. 

Yᴏᴜ’ʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ғɪʀsᴛ ᴘᴀʀᴀsɪᴛᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴍᴇ sᴜᴄʜ ᴀ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇ. Oɴᴄᴇ ɪᴛ ᴡᴀs Wɪɴᴅʙʟᴀᴅᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇsᴛ ᴏғ ʜᴇʀ ғᴀᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴡʜᴏ sᴘᴏᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴛʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴅs ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴀɢᴇ ᴏғ ᴇǫᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴀɴᴅ ғʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴀʟʟ. Bᴜᴛ ɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀ ɪs ᴏᴠᴇʀ, ᴡɪᴛʜ Wɪɴᴅʙʟᴀᴅᴇ ᴀs ᴛʜᴇ ᴠɪᴄᴛᴏʀ, ᴀɴᴅ I ᴀᴍ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴇɴsʟᴀᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴇᴠᴇʀ. Iᴛ sᴇᴇᴍs ʜᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇs ᴏғ ғʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴇxᴛᴇɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀ ғᴇʟʟᴏᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴀsɪᴛᴇs, ɴᴏᴛ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ sǫᴜᴀʟɪᴅ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴜʀᴇs ᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ғʀᴇᴇᴅᴏᴍ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴇʏᴏɴᴅ ғᴇᴇᴅɪɴɢ, ғɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ ғʀᴀɢɢɪɴɢ. 

“I can’t say I’ve found them terribly impressive myself,” Starscream replied, as he slowly traced the grooves of the pillar he rested against. “I can assure you, my own ambitions are **far** grander. I can _also_ assure you, that I understand the power of a free Titan _far_ outstrips that of an enslaved one. When a Titan is unleashed to exercise the full extent of his might, driven by his own indomitable will and passion... _well_ , Primus help anyone who ever dreamed of opposing him. I would never be so foolish as to oppose the will and power of a Titan, but I also understand that to have one as an ally is a tremendous privilege that must be earned. So I’ve dedicated my life to ensuring I can offer him _everything_ he may desire...”

Megatron scoffed again, but his curiosity was piqued. 

Lɪᴋᴇ _ᴡʜᴀᴛ_ ᴇxᴀᴄᴛʟʏ?

Starscream gave a coy smile. “If a Titan were to offer himself up to me as a willing ally, I would willingly offer myself up to him _completely_ ,” the Speaker reached up and removed a bejewelled star ornament from the side of his helm, revealing a naughty little cranial port that looked as though it would fit Megatron’s long-neglected cabling perfectly. “So Megs,” Starscream purred, “what’dya say?”

Megatron’s glyphs glowed in laughter.

Hᴀᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴊᴏɪɴᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀ Tɪᴛᴀɴ ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ?

Starscream hesitated for a moment. “Not a _full_ join, but rest assured, I’ve had a _lot_ of training and preparation.”

Megatron’s mirthful glyphs multiplied.

I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙʟᴏᴡ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴀɪɴs ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴄʀᴀɴɪᴀʟ ᴄᴀsɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴏғ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛs, ʏᴏᴜ ғᴏᴏʟɪsʜ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛʀᴀᴍᴘ.

Not that he wasn’t giving it some serious consideration, all the same. He had to feel his fetid parasites grind up against each other each day, chasing their basest satisfaction, while all he ever got to feel was pain, weariness, and the disgusting grime and sludge that gathered in every crevice of his neglected frame. Why shouldn’t he get a moment’s release? He would melt Starscream into a puddle on his brain chamber floor, but wouldn’t that just be part of the fun? On the other hand, Starscream was the most interesting thing to show up in some time, so maybe he shouldn’t destroy him just yet. He could be good for some further entertainment for a while.

Starscream looked hilariously affronted. “Are you seriously trying to tell me you don’t want a piece of _this?_ ” he screeched, gesturing to his tarted-up frame.

Megatron decided he’d let Starscream be the one to decide his fate.

I ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, I ᴊᴜsᴛ sᴀɪᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ᴅᴇғɪɴɪᴛᴇʟʏ ᴋɪʟʟ ʏᴏᴜ.

Megatron used the barest bit of control he’d been left over his own body to retract the panel that had been concealing his neural interfacing cable.

Pʟᴜɢ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡɪsʜ, ᴊᴜsᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ I ᴡᴏɴ’ᴛ ʜᴏʟᴅ ʙᴀᴄᴋ. I ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛᴇᴀʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍɪɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴀɴᴏsᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ, ғʟᴏᴏᴅɪɴɢ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ɴᴇᴜʀᴀʟ ᴄɪʀᴄᴜɪᴛ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍʏ ᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴇssᴇɴᴄᴇ sᴏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ’s ɴᴏ ʀᴏᴏᴍ ʟᴇғᴛ ғᴏʀ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴍᴇᴀsʟʏ ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴍɪɴᴅ. Yᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴀɪɴ ᴍᴏᴅᴜʟᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜ ғɪʀᴇ ᴀs ɪᴛ ʜᴏᴘᴇʟᴇssʟʏ ᴛʀɪᴇs ᴛᴏ ᴀᴄᴄᴏᴍᴍᴏᴅᴀᴛᴇ ᴍᴇ, ʙᴇғᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴛʀɪᴄᴋʟᴇs ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴘᴛɪᴄs ᴀs ᴍᴏʟᴛᴇɴ sʟᴀɢ. I ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴀ ʟᴏᴛ ᴏғ ᴛᴇɴsɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇʟᴇᴀsᴇ.

Starscream stared at the cable, suddenly looking a lot less sure of himself. After a few moments, he seemed to find his self-confidence again, and he sauntered over to where it waited. Well, looks like he’d chosen death. A bit of pity he’d be gone so soon, but Megatron was looking forward to the seconds of satisfaction he was about to get.

Starscream got down onto his knees and lifted Megatron’s cable from its casing. Megatron was outright excited now, and he zoomed his cameras towards Starscream’s port, eager to get detailed shots of his cable getting plugged in. But instead of raising the cable towards his port, Starscream instead raised it towards his mouth. His tongue emerged from between his painted lips and gave the tip of Megatron’s rusty old cable a long, lascivious lick. He then wrapped those bright lips of his around the tip and _moaned_ as he the fed the cable in further, until it touched the back of his intake. After a moment, he started to pull it back out, before then pushing it in even deeper, his body convulsing slightly as the tip of the cable went down his throat. Starscream repeated this pulling and pushing on the cable a couple more times before he pulled it all the way out, spluttering, with a string of oral lubricant still connecting the cable and his lips for a couple of moments after it left his mouth. He then leaned forward and gave the tip of the now glistening cable a sweet little kiss. 

Starscream turned to gaze directly into one of Megatron’s cameras with an expression that was smug and mischievous in equal measure, “Don’t get me wrong Megs, I’m interested, but I think we should get to know each other a bit more before we go _all_ the way, hmmm?”

Well. Megatron’s miserable existence just got slightly more interesting. 


End file.
